


Inevitable

by zentaylor



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Angst, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-21
Updated: 2013-05-27
Packaged: 2017-12-06 01:23:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/730058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zentaylor/pseuds/zentaylor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Following events involving lies, violence and miscommunication, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson are forced to finally explore the real nature of their complicated relationship (ACD canon perhaps with modern overtones developing).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Many's the time I have run alongside Sherlock Holmes down the streets of London, both figuratively and literally speaking. The years I had spent by his side as a bachelor had slowly caused me to become addicted to the adrenaline rush associated with danger. I lived for the complexity of the cases which faced us, and the triumph, pride and admiration I would feel when they would suddenly become clear to Holmes and afterward, subsequent to some explanation, to myself. I would regularly sit amidst pages of monotonous paperwork in my practise and feel my hand slip into my pocket out of habit, longing to feel the comfortable, metallic weight of my revolver: a promise of excitement. Over the paper every morning I eagerly perused the news, hoping for some sign of a new case for Holmes. My craving for action had peaked at the point where, even if Holmes did not have a case, I would pine after his company and wander over to Baker Street as soon as my demanding practise would allow, and would most certainly drop everything and follow him anywhere should he say the word. Though, my inability to keep away was not always choice. Should he have a long period of idleness, as he had had recently, I was continually on my guard, occupying his complex mind whenever and however I could to stave off his blackest depressions and keep him from turning to the cocaine, the dreaded seven-per-cent solution which had so consumed him before.

In any case, I simply could not settle down to married life. In the months prior to my marriage, a change had occurred in mine and Holmes' friendship which had left us both reeling somewhat, and some space from him had initially been a relief. Despite this issue, which we had neither discussed nor resolved, I still found myself drawn to him and the life I once had with him. My dear wife, it pains me to say, knew she came second, and would always come second, not purely to Holmes, but to the lifestyle featuring his constant presence to which I had become accustomed and could simply neither leave nor change. At the time I was reluctant to explore whether this was due to the weakness of my disposition or the strength of what Holmes and I still shared but I could deny neither. She subsequently left me to live with her sister in Farnham. Holmes seemed oblivious to the pain and guilt that consumed me at this turn of events, barely batting an eyelid as I struggled with my belongings back to his rooms, which were now once again to be our rooms, on Baker Street late one afternoon.

'Your appearance does not surprise me, my dear Watson,' he said placidly over a pipe, seated comfortably in his armchair as I put a few of my medical books back onto the shelf that I noticed he had never refilled since my absence. 'Your knowledge of the fairer sex is infinitely better than mine, and I am sure that I do not need to inform you that women are of a singularly sensitive and capricious order. Her departure was inevitable, you understand.'

'I'd rather not talk about it, Holmes,' I responded slightly bitterly, starting on the final box. I had expected there to be more of my life to bring back here. Looking around me, I noticed that a fair proportion of my belongings had remained after I left; or I'd seemingly gradually brought them back from my new house in Cavendish Place over the ten months or so I'd been living as one half of a married couple, subconsciously moving my existence back here object by object to where the selfish part of me evidently longed to be.

Holmes stretched his long legs out in front of the fire, watching me, wreaths of tobacco smoke swirling round him. I turned my back on him and busied myself with another shelf, absently fingering the relics from numerous solved crimes from our past before unnecessarily rearranging the books simply to occupy myself.

'I observe that you are hurting, Watson.'

'Oh, you do, do you?'

'Yes, I do. You are portraying the very textbook signs of a man who is suffering from distinct mental and emotional anguish. The way you continue to bang those books around is a sure indication, and I must confess, my dear fellow, that I'd rather you didn't take your sorrow out on the literature.'

'I wish you wouldn't analyse me all the time, Holmes,' said I, not particularly feeling the amount of strength or patience I usually required to deal with him when his mood turned to one of this nature.

'Furthermore,' he continued as if I hadn't spoken, 'your body language is tense and the left corner of your collar is very nearly beginning to fray from the way you insist on rubbing it between your fingers whenever something is playing on your mind. The smell of brandy on your breath tells me that you have been in your club all afternoon brooding. However,' he concluded, 'I have deduced exactly what is wrong with you.'

'Excellent,' I replied sarcastically. 'Pray, do enlighten me.'

'You are worried that this occurrence involving you and your dear wife -'

'She has a name, Holmes,' I sighed irritably.

'- my apologies; you and your dear _Mary_ , has transpired entirely through fault of your own.'

I turned to look at him, leaning against the sill of the bow window, fuming silently and awaiting his continuation.

'Her departure was not down to you, my dear fellow. I have long examined the brain of the female of our species, albeit from a distance, and I admit that upon studying Mary when I first met her, she did not strike me as a suitable mate for you. She was not nearly interesting enough.' Here, he drew on his pipe again, staring into the fire, either oblivious to, or ignoring, the fact that my fists were now clenched at my sides. 'So, having expected this pattern of events from the very beginning, I will say again that your return here is of no surprise to me. You are an energetic man, curious by nature, and though you lack in imagination occasionally, you are showing some very positive signs of a capable mental capacity. Naturally, these little problems of mine tend to be of interest to you, and your assistance is always truly appreciated, having grown to be a necessity to me. If your wife can not understand the fact that you desire to have other interests save your practise and her company, then it is surely her problem, not yours, and there is no need for you to feel guilty about it. As for how things stand between ourselves, I do not see why it would not be possible for things to return to the way they once were.'

'Are you quite finished?' I said in a low voice after a few moments of silence.

He looked pensive for a moment, pipe between his lips. 'Yes, I believe I am.' He was almost smiling. That thin, expressive mouth was curved slightly upwards at the corners which told of the pride he felt at having provided me with what he thought to be such words of wisdom. I have no doubt that he was expecting me to be glowing with pleasure at this rare display of humanity from him, this reassurance that I having made a huge mistake and driving my own wife away in the process was not my fault. I remained motionless, vigorously exercising the long-suffering nature that I had strengthened during my years of living in the company of this infuriating man. Holmes took my sustained stillness as a positive sign.

'Come, come, man; it's not all that bad. You are back at Baker Street anyhow, and at risk of sounding uncharacteristically sentimental, it is undoubtedly where you belong. Sit down, Watson. Let me see you once more in your customary armchair.'

'I do not wish to sit.'

This inspired the effect I had wished it to. Holmes had become so used to his masterly tone and my acquiescent and admiring nature that my failure to consent to his simplest request stimulated his interest. His grey eyes turned at once from relaxed and pondering to steely and concentrated as he looked me over in his singularly introspective fashion. He said nothing as he tapped the ashes from his pipe and returned it to the mantelpiece, soon replacing his intent gaze upon me once more as he positioned his fingertips together in front of his lips.

'Why, if I may ask, do you not wish to sit?'

'It is really what you expect me to do, Holmes? To sit down with you and smoke and laugh over old times? Well, your great mind has failed you. Despite your finely honed powers of deduction, you have made a mistake.' I turned from him once more and looked out at the darkening street below me, fighting to keep my temper under control.

'Oh, pull yourself together, Watson!' said Holmes harshly. 'I demand that this sulking discontinues this very instant and you stop being so ludicrous.'

The aggression within me finally broke through my passive shell. 'Ludicrous! If there's anyone being ludicrous right now, it's you. It has apparently escaped your notice but my wife has left me, Holmes. My wife! And I loved her. I know you don't understand love, and nor do you wish to, but believe me, it does exist. She was the most beautiful, gentle creature, the sweetest thing on this Earth, and I have lost her.'

'It was bound -'

'Don't you dare tell me it was bound to happen!' I shouted, striding closer to where he sat. 'It was not doomed from the start. She loved me. But because of you, Holmes -'

'Oh, it was due to my error, was it?'

'Yes, it was due to your dashed error! You expect me to be there for you too much. These last couple of months, your needs became excessive. Because you didn't have a case with which to entertain yourself, I have been spending virtually every fraction of my time not occupied by my practise with you. You could see it was driving Mary and I apart, and yet you continued to need me, continued to rely upon me to keep you from driving yourself to distraction or taking your God-forsaken cocaine!' I barked the last few syllables with such a hatred that I myself did not know I was capable of.

'You could have stayed away,' said he, still studying every move I made as I paced the small room. I was sure there was still the hint of a smile playing on his lips and I could tell the logical part of him, the vast constituent of his being, was enjoying analysing this part of my character which he so very rarely provoked me enough to see.

'No, Holmes, I could not, because unlike you, I have a conscience. You knew very well that I would not leave you to yourself, and you unashamedly took advantage. Through all this, you have shown to have not one shred of human compassion within you. Not one! You wanted this to happen.' There are few times that Holmes had seen me thoroughly angry. Even the tone I would take when rebuking his habit was mere annoyance compared to this. I gestured to the space between us. 'We need to address this Holmes. _This_ , whatever it is, has caused these problems. I warned you at the start, we can't –'

I had evidently hit upon a nerve as his features became more animated and the volume of his tone increased slightly. 'I had considered that the conversation would take this turn, but I discarded the thought because I thought you were better than this, Watson!'

'What, better than placing the blame where it truly lies?'

He sighed evenly, composing himself. 'The blame, as you so eloquently put it, does not lie with me.'

'It's your fault she found herself continually alone!'

'How is it, man, how?' he barked, standing and taking a cigarette from his case. 'You always want to come with me on my investigations. I find you here when I don't require you. You choose to frequent these rooms because they are preferable to your practise and my company preferable to the company of your own wife!'

I began to try and dispute, but he cut across me in his most masterful tone.

'Nine months, three weeks. That is how long this fancy of yours has lasted. Not even a year.' He gave a humourless snarl of laughter, eyes dark with sardonic amusement.

I gaped at him for a moment. 'It was what I wanted, Holmes. If you had stopped thinking of yourself for one minute -'

'Give up, Watson.' He looked at me darkly from where he stood next to his armchair, lit cigarette between his fingers. 'I was merely being tactful earlier, but you have forced me to this. Your marriage dissolved because of you and you only. Due to your lack of willpower and fixation with what we have been doing for the last few years, you could not stop when the duty of the modern, conventional man called upon you. You are not that sort of man.'

'You are wrong, Holmes.'

'It is time you ceased lying to yourself.' He drew on his cigarette.

'No.'

'Admit it!'

'I will not!' Before I knew what I was doing I was across the room, in his face, fists clenched. My anger faltered for an instant as I realised that what I was doing was foolish. He must have seen the hesitation in my eyes as I approached him for he did not move an inch, just stared at me evenly as I fought to compose myself and remain dignified.

'Is violence wise, Doctor?' he said quietly. 'I know you pride yourself on being a man of action, but let us consider the situation here for a brief moment prior to rolling up our shirt sleeves. Now,' he moved so that I was forced to take a step back and flicked the remainder of his cigarette into the fire, 'it does not take an expert to see that you are of somewhat more athletic build than I, but you must remember that a favourite pastime of mine is boxing. I can therefore assure you that there could only be one clear victor between us, for anything that I lacked in...spirit,' he remarked with an amused glance to my fists still clenched at my sides, 'I would most certainly compensate for with precision, accuracy and experience. For these reasons, and for the fact that I'd really rather not be forced to engage in combat with you, I urge you to relax your fists, my dear Watson, take some deep breaths and stop looking at me so murderously. I am in no doubt that we can discuss this like adults.' With another small smile he sat back down in his chair, curling his legs underneath him. 'Cigarette?'

I could endure him no longer. Sighing deeply and fighting to keep my anger within me, I walked away from where he sat, no longer trusting myself despite his warning. I donned my hat and hastily made my exit, almost walking into Mrs Hudson as I opened the door.

'Ah, Doctor Watson,' she said with a friendly smile. 'It is a pleasure to see you back. Shall I prepare supper for you both?'

'No thank you, Mrs Hudson,' I answered somewhat stiffly, putting on my coat, 'I shall not be returning tonight.' With that I descended the seventeen steps, shaking my head as I heard our dear housekeeper reprimanding Holmes for having upset me already.


	2. Chapter 2

My walk was accompanied, much to my dismay, with some cold rain. I was quite wet through by the time I reached Goldstein's, having forgotten my umbrella and long-coat in my haste to escape Holmes' company. A tumbler of whisky in my hand, I toasted myself in front of the fire situated in the lavish entrance room of the restaurant, pondering my situation deeply. I must have looked a sorry sight, and indeed my decidedly damp and melancholy air did warrant me a number of stares and from other diners as well as the staff of the establishment. I found that I cared little, though, for my mind was so full of what had just occurred that the maître d' had to shake my shoulder twice in order to rouse me from my reverie to enquire as to whether I wished to be seated.

I dined alone, though I cannot recollect upon what. My hunger sated, but my mind still distracted, I paid and left, soon finding a small, crowded bar situated down an alley in which I could blend in and be left alone in the company of my sorrows and alcoholic beverages. Psychological self-analysis was not an activity I usually partook in, mainly because Holmes had usually told me what I was worried about just by looking at me before the worry had time to properly manifest itself. Nevertheless, I now felt the need to examine the contents of my head which was unwise when considering my mood with hindsight.

My dear Mary... I did not blame her for leaving me. I was not worthy of her love and certainly not worthy of being her husband. My inability to pledge myself to her side for the rest of my life was lunacy. Why I continued to return to that cold, calculated Bohemian soul who had held me in the palm of his hand for so long was beyond my comprehension.

Over the many years of our friendship, I had been forced to define myself in terms of lines that I would not cross. This was more for my own benefit than for Holmes'; he had so little regard for what any reasonable man would deem to be acceptable within the limits of normal friendship that he was forced to obey the rules I put into place between us. However, his limited knowledge as to what constituted and defined these subtle nuances meant that was many months before I was able to begin to reign in his oftentimes questionable behaviour. This period had placed me under no small amount of strain in many regards. I was often frustrated that what was elementary to the simplest of men confounded him so very thoroughly.

To begin with I perceived no problems whatever; his manners were infallible and he was quite charming, if eccentric in some of his mannerisms. When I began to accompany him on cases, he seemed to be able to move with ease through social circles, addressing noblemen as effortlessly as he would be beggar. However, as our friendship became more intimate I came to realise the extent of not merely Holmes' intelligence, but his ignorance. During our frequent fireside discussions, he revealed to me that his social proficiency was merely a result of observation; he simply mimicked others and had no tangible idea of social human behaviour or its reasoning. Holmes really had no idea of what was and what was emphatically not acceptable in terms of his conduct, depending on where we happened to be. I taught him that there was a world of difference between us attending the scene of a crime and us sitting at home in Baker Street.

I do believe to this day that I am the only real friend that Sherlock Holmes has ever had. I've always been able to rationalise his unique traits by considering the solitude he experienced before our paths crossed, but when I would attempt to explain society's rules, I would often struggle when faced with his acerbically logical questions as to exactly why it was inappropriate for him to display the affection he felt for me in a physical way. I recognised early on that he was a tactile man, and I soon became used to his conduct. He would stand close to me, close enough that I could smell his soap and which tobacco he had used to fill his pipe that day. When he would lean towards me or over me when explaining to me the points of a case, I was amazed not only by the brilliance of his brain, but by the sheer energy of him. It seemed to me to buzz around him like an electric current that I could feel and wanted to reach out and touch. His hands were sure when they grasped my own. He would lead me sometimes whilst holding my arm or the small of my back and parts of me longed for these points of contact, yearned to feel that current running through him. Other parts knew that he had to be tamed for the sake of our collective sanity. The fact that the most he was allowed to touch me in public was to walk arm in arm with me down the street required lengthy and repeated elucidation.

During the first couple of years that we spent together, it was clear to us both that I was not actively adverse to him touching me. The fact was that it worried me that I was not adverse at all, and even went so far as to return or even initiate physically intimate actions because I had become used to them and enjoyed them. I would quickly dispel terms such as romantic or erotic from my imagination; Holmes seemed to show no interest in the sexual drives of humanity. I myself remained in a state of childish and strict denial of the reality of the frequent and often intense arousal Holmes' company caused me. Not knowing any different, we both contented ourselves with the intimacy naturally deriving from the energies with which our friendship was imbued.

Things came to a head one night, however, when Holmes tried to begin a discussion about homosexuality. His eyes were wide, innocent, as he asked me: 'Is this what we are?'

I am ashamed to say that, in short, I did not respond well to this enquiry. No longer able to comfortably justify my indulgence of Holmes' affections, I rejected any attempts he made to continue to act in the way to which he had become accustomed. My marriage to Miss Mary Morstan occurred not long after the exchange and the matter had never since been addressed.

But her departure had, of course, been inevitable. As glass after glass of alcohol consumed my reason, that Holmes had been spiteful enough to shove this fact down my throat was enough to make me loath him. I drank myself into the night, entertaining ridiculous thoughts of his conspiracy. The last thing I seem to remember is pain and cold stone pavement.

I awoke in, or rather on, an unfamiliar bed. I had barely moved an inch when an immense stab of pain punctuated my side and radiated throughout my body. Gritting my teeth, head and limbs protesting, I sat up, thoroughly mystified. It seemed my state of soreness and inebriety had rendered me unable to even remove my trousers or unbutton my shirt, let alone climb under the duvet. Breathing shallow from the throbbing at my ribs, I looked around me and realised at once that the hotel I was in was much too expensive for my pocket. My immediate fears were confirmed when I all but fell from the bed and crawled across the floor to reach my discarded jacket, finding the pocketbook thoroughly empty, my whole month's wage gone. I sat leaning against a chair, trying in vain to remember what had happened. Fear began to swell within me as I realised I had no recollection of the end of the previous evening, had no idea where I was, how I got here, and had no explanation for the intense pain I was in. It was everywhere.

Groaning, I added this to the list of the absurd events that the man Sherlock Holmes had somehow caused in my life. I staggered to my feet, adjusting a gap in the luxurious curtains to block out the sunshine assaulting my eyes and began to limp to the bathroom, bitterly observing the utmost extravagance of the room as I crossed it, my feet sinking into the carpet.

The sight of my reflection in the mirror caused me to jump, so unrecognisable was it at first sighting. It was no wonder that I was in pain. Alongside the after-effects of my heavy consumption of alcohol were one eye blackened, the other with a deep cut beneath it, a bruised and possibly fractured jaw, a split lip and various other wounds. My face was covered in a wash of black, blue and reds in an assortment of shades. Sighing, the instinct I had gathered from my years of medical training overtook my panic. I ran my fingers tentatively over the damage, wincing when they came to my jaw. A gasp was wrenched from me as I searched for fractures to my delicate eye socket. Finding no sign, I began filling the sink and I ran my fingers down the left side of my ribs, inhaling sharply even as they merely ghosted over the skin beneath my shirt. Lifting it, what I saw when I looked down was not what I had expected. A huge trail of deep, purple-black bruising ran from the base of my shoulder blade, where my old war-wound had undoubtedly been agitated, down my side with large, angry patches of black amidst the slightly lighter, more bluish background, trailing right down and spreading until the vivid colouring covered one half of my lower abdomen and stretched around my back, disappearing from immediate sight beneath my trouser line near my groin. Dropping my shirt once more, I leaned on my arms and returned my attention back to my face, trying to keep calm as the pain in my side, now I had seen the cause, was worsening.

How on Earth did they let me into a hotel such as this in my state? No sooner had that thought crossed my mind and my cloth reached my first cut when a sharp knock sounded at the door, not aiding my splitting headache. I was certainly in two minds as to whether to answer or not. I wasn't sure who it was, and I could not be sure how I would be met, once they witnessed me with my face, yesterday's shirt un-tucked and rolled to the sleeves, and lack of shoes or socks. However, I could no longer feign sleep so I made my way to open the door. On my way I picked up my dirty jacket, which I noticed was also torn and blood-stained as I threw it onto a chair. Soon, another loud knock threatened to make me lose my reason.

Grimacing, I unlocked and opened the door a fraction. A man stood with his hands behind his back; too well-dressed and subordinate for a servant and yet lacking in managerial air, he was not more than five-and-thirty years of age, clean-shaven and with keen brown eyes. He didn't give as much of a start as I had expected when he saw my countenance and state of disarray in the clothing department, but looked me over with concern.

'Doctor Watson?'

I blinked at him in surprise, opening the door further. 'Yes. Have we met before?'

He looked to either side of him furtively, as if checking our conversation was not being witnessed. 'I am Jones, and I will admit now that I am placing myself in a considerably delicate position at this moment, one which I will elaborate on should you allow me to come in.'

It took me a couple of blinks before my brain could process what he wanted. 'Yes, yes, of course.' I stepped back and allowed him into the room. 'You will forgive my appearance, I hope,' I said to him as he turned to survey me. 'To be frank with you, I can offer no explanation for it.'

'Perhaps I can help you with your explanation. I beg that you sit down though first, Doctor, you do not look well.'

'I cannot say that I feel well. I'm fairly sure that I am concussed; I can remember nothing.' I limped to a red velvet-lined armchair and tried to ease myself into it, putting as little stress on my side as I could, but soon a cry escaped my lips and Jones rushed to my side to help me. I soon sat in the chair, breathing heavily, brow wet with exertion, hoping that this stranger could offer me some answers as to why I had awoken in such a state as this.

'Please,' I said, 'is there any water?'

'Certainly,' he said, and returned a few moments later with a glass from which I drank gratefully.

'I take that you have examined the damage yourself?' he asked with a gesture to my side as he took a seat opposite me.

'Yes. Along with the obvious facial trauma, no bleeding internally as far as I can see, just deep localised bruising, two possibly cracked ribs, but nothing I cannot deal with.'

'Are you certain? I do not doubt your medical abilities, I assure you, but I can get you a second opinion should you require one.'

'No, I do not think it shall be necessary, thank you. But pray, tell me who you are, and if you know anything of what happened to me last night, I would be grateful if you could enlighten me.'

'Well, the first thing I shall say is that nobody knows you are here. You are at The Grand Hotel, situated on the Embankment and arrived here shortly after a quarter to three this morning.'

I knew it. It was indeed much too expensive for my pocket. 'But how did I get here?' I asked, wincing as I shifted.

'I found you. I work here as a head of staff and was locking up after a late party had come in. I heard a disturbance outside, and exited the building to find you unconscious on the stone steps. You were undoubtedly a gentleman; I could see that much from your dress, and you had been mugged. I saw about five or six ruffians take to their heels as they saw me and considered running after them but thought that my attention would be of better use if turned to you. I imagine that when they tried to mug you, you resisted until more of them arrived upon whence they beat you to within, I would say, a few inches of your life. I could not give a description of them to you though, I am afraid, due to the light.'

I sat aghast listening to this account. 'The brutes!'

'Indeed. You were barely breathing when I attended to you, Doctor, but I recognised you at once. Your friend Mr Sherlock Holmes assisted the manager of this hotel a few months back after a suspected burglary and I remembered you from when he questioned me.'

'Ah! I remember now. Forgive me, my brain quite feeling the strain this morning.'

'It is of no consequence,' he said, smiling. 'So, with a considerable effort I brought you in here, to an empty room and I took the liberty of taking off your shoes and placing you on the bed. I knew little of what else to do with you at that hour, but made sure that you were breathing quite rightly before I left you.'

'You did very well, and I must thank you. If you had not found me, God only knows what might have become of me.'

'I did only what anyone else would have done. As I said though, no one else knows you are here. The manager is a fairly cold-hearted businessman, and I do not think he would take kindly to my actions, unfortunately. We must be careful about how we conduct ourselves when you leave.'

'Right, of course,' I sighed.

'If certainly is an unfortunate turn of events. What did they take from you, Doctor?'

'About a month's wages, I am afraid to say.'

'I can only say how sorry I am, sir. We can only be grateful that they did not do you more harm.'

'Yes, quite.'

I saw him glance to where I still wore my wedding band and he smiled. 'I imagine you are glad that you have a wife to go home to.'

'Indeed.' I was too overcome to correct the man. Instead I sat quietly whilst he gathered my things and spoke about helping me get home, my mind filling with dread as I pondered just how little I wished to return to Baker Street.


	3. Chapter 3

As I feared, but had expected, my appearance did attract the attention of many on my journey back through the metropolis. Jones had given me money for a cab and I promised to repay him for his assistance and kind heart when I was once again convalescent. I entered the Baker Street apartment with trepidation in my heart, praying for Holmes not to be there, wishing for some peace and quiet in which to tend to my wounds. I simply could not deal with the sight of him; the mixture of guilt and anger was a confusion one. There was no sign of Mrs Hudson, which I took as a positive sign: she was probably taking advantage of his absence and tidying the rooms.

The stairs proved to be rather an obstacle. I leant heavily on the stick I had borrowed from the hotel, wincing and gasping, having to stop every few steps to catch my breath and prevent myself from fainting with the pain of the movement. When I reached the top, the door was closed but I groaned as I heard the dulcet tones of Holmes' violin. Attempting to compose myself and mask the pain on my face, I opened the door. The strings squeaked as his eyes found mine.

'Watson,' he whispered.

'It is nothing,' I said quietly, attempting and failing to remove my coat with the restricted movement on the left side of my body. Holmes approached me at once to assist, though his pity was the last thing that I wanted. I could not even look at him. When my coat was hung up, he stood before me, studying the chaos of my bruised and cut face and no doubt deducing exactly which other parts of me were in pain just from the way I moved. He reached out his hand to my bruises.

'Don't,' I said, stepping around him and, taking the black bag containing my medical supplies from the sideboard, I slowly made my way to my bedroom. I stopped at the foot of the stairs which lead to my chambers, feeling utterly unable to traverse them, yet wanting so very much to be among the comfort of my own belongings and arrangements so I could properly gauge the damage to my body. Holmes followed me out to the hallway and seemed to read my thoughts.

'I don't think those stairs are wise in your state, old boy. I can barely imagine how you managed to get up those seventeen which lead to here. Come and try the settee.'

I looked longingly up the stairs for a few more seconds before following him back into the living room, knowing I had no choice. He disappeared downstairs and I heard him talking to our landlady while I sat on the settee with my bag next to me and simply stared into space, my mind numbly running over the events that had occurred within the last twenty-four hours. Here I was with no money, my body and mind in a worse state than it had been upon my arrival back from Afghanistan, the friendship and confidence I had shared with a man for years now almost certainly irreparable and without my wife or even another close companion to turn to. As I remained there, these miserable contemplations made the entirety of my being feel cold. Too fatigued to feel ashamed, the tears began to fall, stinging my cuts and marks. Upon unclasping my hands, I noticed that they shook. I knew that this was likely to be shock from my ordeal, but it was too much both physically and mentally for me to move to fetch a dash of brandy to steady myself. And it was in this state that Sherlock Holmes found me upon entering once again. I regretted again not being alone, but a small part of me enjoyed watching his evident discomfort at witnessing the condition that the man who had once been his closest and only companion, a man as active as he and of balanced mind, had been reduced to: a silently crying, trembling, beaten mess.

He stood surveying me for some minutes, anguish evident upon his face. He then produced a glass of brandy which, after approaching me somewhat warily, he handed to me, steadying my quivering hand with his own as I drank. I shook off his hand.

'I told you, Holmes. Don't.'

'Watson,' he said softly, 'what have you done to yourself?' He pulled a chair near to where I sat and perched there.

The way he posed that question infuriated me. I do not know what I blamed him for, but I wished for nothing more than for him to be gone. Fatigue from my stair-related excursions threatened to consume me, and my emotions ran riot through my brain as I blinked away more tears.

'What have I done to myself?' I said with a bitter laugh. 'You are entirely unbelievable. '

He ignored me. 'What happened?'

'I fail see how it's any of your business. One could say that if it wasn't for you, I wouldn't be in this condition.' I winced as my breathing rate increased with my level of frustration. Holmes blinked, my irrational and unfair allegation wounding him. 'Now, you can either help me up the stairs to my bedroom where I can have some peace, or I shall attempt them myself.'

'Watson, I am no doctor, but I fear that even with my help the stairs will be too much for you.'

'Very well, then, if you refuse to assist...' I took a deep breath and held it as I attempted to stand, but almost immediately Holmes had risen, his hands firmly on my shoulders, lightly pressing me back. As I was forced to sit, I shook his hands from me again and insisted angrily that he keep them to himself. He pretended I had not spoken.

'I refuse to let you leave this settee. My dear friend, whatever occurred between us last night, let it rest for now. You may batter me and shower me with disdain all you like when you are recovered and I deserve to let you, for I said many things that I should not have done, and that has ultimately led to this. Now, you will not tell me what has happened, and you needn't. From what I can gather, you went to a restaurant, then a rough public house and found yourself this morning in this pitiful state and... Ah, just as I suspected,' he concluded, delving his hand into my jacket and pulling out my empty pocket book, 'mugged.'

'Yes, yes, Holmes, very clever of you. Now, leave me alone.'

'As for where you found yourself, I have not entirely been able to deduce that fact as of yet...'

'Holmes!' I said harshly, the exertion making me cough. 'This is not another intellectual exercise for you! You have upset me, irritated me and hurt me but as you requested, I shall let that rest for now. I am mentally and physically drained and I need to sleep, so I insist that you leave me be!'

As he sat still his stimulated eyes once again became calm and it seemed to me that for once in our life together, he would do as I wished. He continued to look at me for a few more seconds, evidently thinking, before speaking softly.

'Please, allow me to help you for five more minutes and then I promise to let you sleep.'

I nodded my acquiescence, too exhausted to protest. Wiping my fevered brow I remembered bitterly how much I loathed being like this; a useless circumstance of mind and body I had not so long recovered from after my Afghanistan excursion. Holmes busied himself with attending to me, collecting a loose-fitting shirt and old pair of trousers along with my dressing-gown, remarking that until I recovered, social formalities could be forgotten entirely. I shot him a look with the vague hope of it wounding him in some way and he left me upon my request to deal with my clothes. My state of mind at the time was shown quite clearly to be skewed, for I preferred to painfully wrestle at length in the task of changing my shirt rather than request Holmes' assistance. I was pleased when my gasps of pain did not bring him running to help me. Instead, he reappeared a few minutes later once I had finished.

'What is the diagnosis?'

'I haven't examined the area thoroughly yet. Two cracked ribs, perhaps three.'

'I would guess at four.'

'Four, then,' I whispered and lay out on the settee with caution, every movement agony. After a full five minutes of twisting and turning, thoroughly unable to reach anything resembling comfort, or even an amount of pain that was in the least bearable, I turned to my friend who was fetching me a blanket.

'Holmes,' I said feebly, my voice cracking, loathing myself for my weakness.

'Yes?'

'It is the pain. I cannot bear it… Not again.'

He appeared to be pondering. 'Remain where you are, Watson. I shall return presently.'

I almost laughed at the irony of his statement and listened to the sound of his footsteps as he disappeared from view and went to his bedroom. I heard the usual rifling of papers, throwing of objects, shifting of boxes and puzzled mutterings as he searched for the illusive item amidst the chaos of his belongings. As I had just begun to wonder what this item could be and what he possibly planned to do with it, he materialised on a chair next to where I lay. He took my forearm in a firm grip, turned my arm over to expose its pale, hairless underside and plunged the needle of one of his hypodermic syringes expertly into a vein just below my elbow joint. I cried out in shock.

'Holmes! For God's sake -'

'Lay still, Watson,' he said calmly, pushing the last of the clear liquid into my bloodstream and removing the needle once more.

'What do you think you're bloody doing, man? What is _wrong_ with you? How dare you -'

'Hush.'

'I hope to God that that was a clean needle! If that was cocaine...'

He held a small piece of cotton to the puncture site. 'Of course it was a clean needle, doctor. And, pray, of what use to you would cocaine be? That was a small dose of morphine. Within a few minutes the pain will be numbed and you shall be able to sleep quite peacefully.'

I found myself quite dazed; the mixture of loathing and rage with a small amount of gratitude was baffling. Holmes watched these emotions flit across my features along with others.

'That was bold, even for you. You could be arrested, I hope you appreciate that.' Even as I attempted to scold him, surely enough, I found that I was able to move around more easily and get comfortable.

'And yet I did it anyway,' he replied, a small smile appearing for a second. I said nothing more to him; I could not, for fatigue was engulfing me. He laid a blanket over me gently and sat in his armchair by the fire. The edges of my vision began to turn hazy and I was soon on the edge of the deep and dreamless when I thought I heard a voice from across the room.

'Sleep now, my Watson.'


	4. Chapter 4

It was late evening when I awoke once again. Upon opening my eyes I saw Holmes dozing peacefully in the same armchair and I lay for a few moments, knowing that as soon as I moved the pain would return. Eventually, because of the way I was laying, my left arm began to numb. Holmes' eyes flew open in response to my deep intake of breath when I attempted to shift my weight.

'Watson?'

'I am fine, Holmes, I'm just moving. There is nothing to be concerned about,' was my slightly sarcastic reply.

He chucked quietly. 'This is reminiscent of when we first met and your wound was still troubling you. You were a veritable bear.'

'It is about time you had to put up with me rather than the usual way around. I remember it too, and am not relishing the idea of a repeat performance by any means. I do not enjoy pain, Holmes.'

'I was not insinuating that you do.'

'That is well, then.'

I held my breath as I continued my mission to move from my side onto my back. It was a long and painful process and it wasn't until a couple of minutes later that I opened my eyes to find Holmes' aquiline face looming above mine as he stood at the side of the settee, half a smile on his lips.

'What is it, Holmes?' I growled.

The smile grew as he drew the syringe from behind his back with a flourish.

'No.' I said simply. The curve of his lips faded and he walked around the settee to stand by my feet.

'That response has puzzled me, Watson. May I enquire as to the reasoning behind this adversity to pain relief? I had thought that my supply of morphine would be well-received.'

'I do not need it.'

'On the contrary, I think you will find that you do.'

'I said no. Leave me; I do not have the energy to argue with you.'

'Sit up, Watson.'

'What? Why?'

'I asked you to sit up. I am proving you to be wrong.'

With some difficulty, I heaved a great sigh. 'I cannot.'

'Precisely. How then, pray, do you suppose to do anything at all for the next few days? You need to tend to your bruises and cuts. I know how much you loath being so inactive; if your mood is like this now, I simply cannot imagine how you will be once a week has elapsed.'

I continued to glare at him in silence and he seemed to realise his campaign was getting him nowhere. He laid down the syringe delicately on the table and crouched in front of me so I was forced to look at him.

'Watson,' he said softly, 'I will speak plainly to you. You are in intense pain, more than you will allow me to see. I simply cannot bear to see you in this state, knowing that I am technically responsible. I wish to help you. If you let me give you this, you will be able to walk around in relatively little discomfort and go up to your chambers; it is imperative that you treat your injuries. If you are worried about getting addicted to the morphine, I know that you will not, simply for the reason that you are too strong a man for that. Stronger than I, certainly. There is no danger.'

'I am not strong,' I said immediately, reflexively.

Disregarding my comment, his grey eyes sought acquiescence. As I weighed up the potential implications of accepting the drug, I noticed that they seemed distant and pained, his slight fidgeting betraying his disquiet at all that lay unsaid between us. Knowing that I was resigning any last hopes I had of ever leaving the spell he had always captured me with, I offered him my arm.

Once again he sought a vein and administered the drug with the precision and deftness of one who knew the act far too intimately. His fingers grasped my forearm tenderly, and the quick swipe of a tongue between his lips revealed not only concentration but the relish he felt at being allowed to observe in another human the process with which he was so familiar. Applying a piece of cotton to the puncture site, he was rapt, staring into my eyes as he waited for the relieved sigh and constriction of the pupils which signalled the onset of the opiate's effects. He chuckled deeply.

'Ah, I enjoy that particular moment.'

I settled back onto the settee. 'The relief is certainly marked. What on earth does it feel like when one isn't it pain?'

'Well,' he smiled thinly and gave my fingers a brief squeeze before releasing them and allowing my arm to rest back on the settee, 'you are aware of how it got its name, I imagine.'

'Morpheus, the Greek god of dreams.'

'Indeed. Let us just say that it is an apt allusion.'

I wanted more of an explanation but he rose and I was momentarily distracted, the nature of the drug creating romanticised visions in my head of the softly swishing burgundy of his silk dressing gown catching and caressing light from the gas lamps.

'It's very pretty, Holmes,' I heard myself call after him as he swept into his room.

'What is?'

I coughed and groaned as my muscles protested against the spasms. 'The… umm… dressing gown.'

'Why, the morphine certainly works upon you quickly, doctor!

'So it seems. I apologise – I do feel very strange.'

He returned, drying his hands on a towel, and looked me over concernedly, 'not unpleasant, I hope?

'No, no, certainly not unpleasant. Quite the opposite, in fact.'

I was in earnest; it was frighteningly easy to appreciate how quickly one could become addicted to the abuse of opiates. I considered myself lucky to have the medical knowledge necessary to be able to countermand the pleasurable sensations the morphine afforded me with the awareness of the exact ways in which it had the potential to destroy my every faculty with regular use. Holmes must have seen the look of disgust that flittered across my features as the rational parts of my brain chased away elaborate and harrowing visions of cells and neurones decaying into mush.

'There is no need to be concerned, Watson. I know the nature of this drug as intimately as yourself, albeit for reasons infinitely more unsavoury. You may rest assured that I will ensure that you only have the amount you need at the time you need it, and nothing more.'

I nodded, my head pleasantly light, and moved my limbs, shifting experimentally and finding the pain more bearable. Standing became a possibility, though not without Holmes' steadying presence next to me, countering my propensity to pitch unevenly from side to side as I mounted the stairs to my bedroom. At the top, he left me with my black medical bag, assuring that he would return should I need any assistance.

...

'Holmes!'

Though I sounded panicked, the edge to my voice as I called my friend's name was more a result of frustration and the remaining pain that the morphine had not managed to touch. I had undressed, washed and had begun attempting to apply a healing salve to the bruising which coated the majority of my left side. The colouring and tenderness had become more pronounced overnight and spread from my shoulder to my groin, with particularly visually spectacular damage to my ribcage and abdomen. Red-faced and sweating from the excursion of my attempts to reach certain areas of my shoulder and back given my restricted movement, Holmes found me panting and angered after he'd bounded to attend to me, taking the stairs three at a time.

He brushed off my attempts to apologise for my state of undress, for I was in merely my undergarments, the loose-fitting white shirt he had found for me yesterday unbuttoned. This I had wrapped around me in haste as he ascended to my room; though he himself I was accustomed to seeing in various states of undress depending on his mood, I was more cautious. The most I would ever pervert the gentleman's code of dress in company, especially that of Holmes', would be to take off my collar and roll up my shirtsleeves if I was especially warm.

'There is no need for timidity or embarrassment, Watson.' He took in my reddened complexion and agitated state, frowning, and tutted at me. 'Why have you allowed yourself to become like this? I should have known that you would be too proud to let me assist you from the start and instead have insisted on the matter.'

'Don't get righteous with me, Holmes. I can assure you that I am not enjoying this situation in the slightest. If you could just help me for a few minutes and then leave me be instead of prolonging the discomfort, I would appreciate it.'

He raised his eyebrows but remained silent, approaching the bed and waiting expectantly for instruction. For my part, I remained petulant with my arms folded lightly across my chest, holding in place the shirt which I'd wrapped around me to conceal my upper body.

It was not that I was reluctant to receive his help. On the contrary, I was aware that not only had I no alternative option, but I recognised that Holmes would be effective and attentive in his ministrations. Instead, what I was experiencing was a pronounced sense of fear as to what this removal of physical space was likely to mean for our current situation. He allowed me some time, which I occupied with a zealous examination of any object in my modest room which was not his face, a sight I found that I could not directly confront for some moments.

As I saw it, to allow myself to be physically vulnerable in front of Holmes and to allow him the intimacy of seeing and touching me eliminated what I perceived as any last chance to protect myself from an imminent barrage of emotions and mental onslaught. I had barely allowed Holmes near me in over ten months. I had hated it.

By now Holmes had moved to sit gingerly on the end of my bed whilst I did battle with my concerns and was occupying himself with picking the stitching from the seam of my coverlet. My staring at the wall had afforded me no answers, and so I turned to look at him. He was lost in his ministrations concerning my bed clothes and so I was able to observe him for some moments. I saw a man, my friend, who was a child in his knowledge of some things and a demigod in his knowledge of others, and the tension between these states created a person to whom I was inexplicably drawn. With an effort I heaved a sigh and inwardly acknowledged the loss of control which accompanied that exhaled breath. I prodded Holmes with my foot and he looked up.

'I believe that I am aware of what you have been considering, Watson. I know I am still mostly ignorant in certain areas which are elementary to many. All I do know in this situation is that our friendship is the only area of my existence which is not governed by logic.'

'Are you suggesting that I should behave in the same manner?'

'I am suggesting that you acknowledge that not everything can be illuminated by thought.'

I resigned myself to nodding and he held my eyes for a moment as he rose, moving to sit in line with my chest. Looking away once more, I moved my arms from where they had lain defensively across my chest and rested them at my sides, the colour rising in my cheeks once more as my friend's long fingers came to part the two overlapping halves of the shirt which hid my injuries. He fell to a long perusal of my body, eyes roving to catalogue the damage and became so involved in his examination that I was forced to break the silence.

'I was able to reach most of it,' I indicated from the top of my chest to my thigh, 'but I can't get to much of my back and shoulder.'

'It is no wonder,' he said in a low voice. 'Is the damage as extensive?'

'It is perhaps about the same,' I replied, beginning to turn onto my stomach, 'I have not looked since yesterday morning at the hotel.'

Remaining indifferent was a struggle as Holmes helped me to remove my shirt entirely. His low noise of horror confirmed my suspicions that the injuries to my back were developing in much the same way as those of my front; the colours were darkening and spreading as the pain became deeper and more localised. The first touch of Holmes' fingers as they ghosted along a rib bone to my spine caused me to start.

'I apologise.' Though I had turned away from him and could not see his expression, I could hear emotion in his voice and sensed that he was commenting vaguely on the situation as a whole as well as for the pain he was about to cause me in helping me to heal.

'I'm a doctor, Holmes. I'm aware of exactly how much this is about to hurt.' I stilled, reeling slightly from the sudden lump in my throat. After a few moments of silence broken only by him slowly unscrewing the lid of the pot containing the salve, I whispered, 'my wife should be doing this.'

The thought washed over me quite suddenly and I am not sure for whose benefit I decided to voice it. I took Holmes' lack of response to be a confirmation of the fact that not only did I sound unconvinced, but that there was nothing that could have been said, save for an affirmation which would have helped neither of us. Instead, we let my comment sit between us. It was weighty, unattended and became all the more pronounced when I sighed heavily in response to his fingers meeting assaulted flesh. He was, unfortunately, a presence that could not be ignored; the hands which I had watched and admired I know not how often during their day to day tasks were unmistakably his. They were large and manly yet deft and delicate, and though I often had cause to wince and grit my teeth, they also brought some amount of relief as the salve was worked gently into the tender tissues.

He was lingering at his task. This I knew very well, but I did nothing to stop the slightly slickened pull of the pads of his fingers and palms as he mapped my torso. He paused often at my scar, which he had very seldom seen, and traced the jagged edges created by the miscoloured healed flesh with his fingertips.

I focused on the remaining headiness from the morphine, allowing it to chase away any last attempts at reason and lull me into a false sense of mental distance from what was occurring. By nature I did not consider myself to be in any way passion's slave, but I wished for there to be no end to these few quiet moments of contact. Soon, however, my agitated skin was screaming for the gentle touching to cease. Holmes sensed my growing discomfort.

'Do you wish me to stop?'

'No, but the pain grows unbearable.'

His hands were gone in an instant and he said, 'They certainly made quite a thorough job of beating you. I was correct about the four cracked ribs.'

I huffed out a tired laugh. 'Of course you were'

He waited patiently whilst I turned over to lie once again on my back and offered me a small smile with a glass of water. I raised my eyebrows at him; he continued to regard me strangely as I drank.

'What is it, Holmes?'

He stayed silent for some moments, lips pursed as if about to speak. Taking the glass back from my outstretched hand, he replaced it gently on the bedside table and on it his gaze remained fixed.

'There are some things I wish to say.' He paused, eyeing the glass as if it had done him some grave injustice. Uncertainty was not an emotion that I was accustomed to seeing upon his features. 'However, I am unsure as to how to say them, and indeed as to whether they should be said at all. I operate on the basis that if I am not more than very sure about a particular matter, I will not act according to that matter because it is not logical that I should do so. Of late, certain matters have evaded this usually reliable technique.' Here he paused again, wringing his hands and coughing lightly. 'The last time that I acted upon a matter which I considered to be one of assurance, it resulted in your departure. When I supposed again that I could rely on my certainty as to the same matter, you once again made a hasty exit and have ended up in this terrible state. I am now reluctant to voice my views as I fear that this may be developing into a pattern.' The pause this time was marked. 'I did not believe that I could be quite so wrong as to see you hurt, Watson.'

This was the moment I had been dreading. That Holmes truly believed himself to be wrong made me feel like a villain - his continued belief in this absurd fiction was a result of nothing but my self-centred cowardice. While I struggled to form words, he spoke again.

'I was simply unable to understand. I _still_ do not understand why I was so very wrong.'

'You were not wrong. I was scared, Holmes.'

'Of me?'

'No, of course not,' I insisted.

'Then of what?'

'It – it is complicated.'

'It is not complicated as I see it, Watson,' he hissed, angering slightly. 'You know me to be ignorant of how these things work, and as such you knew that I would take your word as truth. You explained to me that society deems relations between men to be wrong, and even you could not offer me any logical reason for this. I said I would stop, do you remember?' He got up, moving away from me and walking to the window. 'I said that I would stop being close to you, that I would stop touching you if it made you uncomfortable or unhappy. But it didn't. You _said_ it didn't. You said things could continue as they were as long as they remained in the privacy of our rooms.'

'Yes, I did say that, but –'

'No, Watson. At some point, you're going to need to stop being so evasive. I made it clear from the start that I had no way of understanding or explaining why I wanted to be near to you, but you accepted it and indulged me. It didn't just stop there though, did it?' His eyes flashed with emotion as he came to sit next to me once again. 'You could have let it rest there, and I would have contented myself with our friendship. Do you remember the night you came home from your club and found me deep in melancholy?' He stopped, waiting for me to answer.

'Yes.'

'You embraced me. Without a word you approached me and pulled me to you.' He stared into nothing, his own hand cradling the back of his neck before he let it drop back to his lap. 'You sighed, breathing me in. I could feel your lips smiling into my neck…' His soft voice trailed off.

'Holmes, I'm sorry –'

'Why do you apologise for that? I can assure you that I was happy in that unexpected moment. As were you, Watson! You were warm and strong and you were happy.' Holmes looked around the room, his eyes making rapid movements. 'Where you were wrong was in leading me to believe that you wanted the same thing as me.'

'I didn't know what I wanted!'

'Neither did I, but we could have figured things out together, as we always have. I wanted you. The specificities are irrelevant. Instead, I make one casual mention of homosexuality and you bolt.'

'Surely you can see how I'd been worried by the Wilde trials.'

'It is not "gross indecency" to be with a man, Watson! I don't believe any of it is. Do you?'

'Why no, of course not, but –'

He stood again and began pacing the floor. 'Then we are in agreement that society is wrong.'

'It is not that simple.'

'Of course it is! If you were worried about your reputation, or my career, I find it hard to believe that you think me quite so stupid as to run down the Strand shouting about sodomy!' His shout rang against the window pane. 'Can you not see? Attempting to define or predict the path that this may have taken is futile. Surely even you can deduce that I have no significant experience of anything of that sort, of _any_ sort. Your own spans nearly two-score years and three continents. I was asking you for nothing, Watson. To have embraced another, to have kissed another… To have some frame of reference for _what this is_ ,' he clasped a hand hard to his chest. I had never seen him so affected, 'what a luxury that would be!'

There were a few beats of silence punctuated only by the staccato beating of my heart in my ears. His back was turned to me and he looked out of the window, out into his city.

'Holmes.'

His voice was barely a whisper. 'Can you imagine how it felt to see you leave? To see you marry?'

He didn't see me until I had grasped his shoulders and forced him to turn. I could barely stand; all that kept me upright was the intensity of the need I felt to hold him to my chest, to press my lips to his own. Whether he froze for seconds or minutes or hours, I could not say, but at some point the inevitable happened.

'No, no…'

He had fled down the stairs before I had even opened my eyes. I stood leaning against the sill of my window for some time, unsure as to whether the tears I felt on my cheeks were his or mine.


	5. Chapter 5

Within the week I found that Baker Street was, by slow degrees, driving me to distraction. I spent much time in my bedroom, for I still found the stairs to be an ordeal for some days, and occupied by time with contemplating the treacherous seas through which I knew I would soon have to navigate. From what I was able to hear from my roost I knew Holmes had been absent from our rooms for much of the time; there had been a few strained glances when I had visited the living room, but he had disappeared before any words could pass between us. Every now and again a box containing a syringe with a dose of morphine would appear on my desk so that I could administer it myself, and though at night I often lay in wait, feigning sleep in the hopes of witnessing him depositing the item, he remained elusive. I would wake the next morning and sigh upon seeing that the box had returned, knowing I had once again missed an opportunity to offer to him the words and comfort he needed and deserved.

Nearly two weeks after the night I was attacked, I was in a more convalescent state and had even ventured so far as to walk gingerly through Regent's Park. It was upon returning from one of these excursions that I entered the living room, startling Holmes who sat alone in his armchair in front of the fire I had instructed Mrs Hudson to make in anticipation of my return from the cold weather. He had been evidently been so absorbed in the letter he was reading that he had not heard my step upon the stairs. He moved to attempt to hide it, but not before I had seen its familiar hand from the doorway.

'What is that, Holmes?' He failed to make a response as I crossed the room to stand in front of him. I held out a hand in which I hoped he would place the letter, thus preventing the situation from escalating more than it had the potential to. It was strange to speak to him after so much silence.

He looked up at me coolly and with disinterest, as if I had not just seen him stuff the correspondence down the side of the armchair in which he was seated. Removing his eyes from where they had been locked with mine, he then focussed his haughty gaze on a space in the middle distance. My own flicked in disbelief between his face and his hand. He traced patterns into the burgundy leather with his fingers while, taking in and expelling a long, measured breath through my nose, I attempted to dispel some of the building fury within me by clenching my open hand into a fist at intervals. I was alarmed by the amount of pleasure I felt I'd receive by putting this fist very firmly into contact with his jaw, perhaps even repeatedly. I cleared my throat and tried once again.

'Holmes. You know that I know exactly what that was.' I paused. His eyes remained without expression and he continued to caress the chair. 'Give it to me.'

I stayed still as I watched him reach down to where, in his panic, he had shoved the pages of lavender note paper graced by my wife's pretty handwriting. However, I did not stay still in the moments that followed him tossing these pages into the fire.

In the few seconds it took for the fragile leaves to be transformed into curls of delicate black ash, Holmes had been punched squarely in the jaw, thrown to the floor and straddled. Sitting astride his hips, I pounded the floor next to his head once with my fist, the force of the impact reverberating across floorboards and shaking the ornaments and pictures nearby.

'You _bastard_ ,' I tried to shout, my voice instead catching roughly in my throat. With one hand I held his wrist to the floor whilst the fingers of the other I threaded fiercely into his hair. 'You bastard…' I found my repeated curses soon became lost against his skin when I pressed my lips hard to where I had hit him.

Blood pooled, hot against my open mouth - it tasted sharp and metallic and I followed it to where it flowed freely from his lip. He made a sound like a dying animal and grasped the back of my neck, forcing me nearer and parting his lips to voraciously accept the advances of my tongue. I possessed that idiotic, spiteful, innocent and beautiful mouth, letting my love and hate for him fuel my body. I could not think and nor could I speak; in fact, I had no intentions but to finally exorcise the contrast of passions which possessed me.

We duelled thus for some minutes, a tangle of pulling towards and pushing away. I kissed him and kissed him and tried so very hard to _want_ to hurt him, to make him feel what he was doing to my heart every second he lay beneath me, and how he had undone me since the very start.

'Watson…' A low and dangerous gasp of breath. I despised him.

'No.' My fingers ripped at his shirt.

'Watson…' My heart began to hammer in my chest as I realised that this word on his lips was the only thing I ever wanted to hear ever again.

'Yes, Holmes. My God, yes.' I groaned in relief as my aching teeth found solace in applying themselves to his neck, collarbone, chest. The sounds he made were unholy, as if with every surrender to me his newly exposed soul was being burned by the firelight.

He tasted exquisite and familiar; the softness of his lips I had captured so fleetingly all those days ago was amplified now that my tongue roved across them, between them. He arched his long body towards mine and soon clung to me as I clung to him, as if no degree of closeness would suffice to satisfy the yearning I'd denied us for so long. I was frantic, torn, desperate.

Taking my head in his hands he made me still, his grey-blue eyes capturing mine, once so evasive and blind to him. I panted, my passion quieting and saw that I trembled as I traced my fingertips over his lips and jawbone. Eventually overwhelmed by his proximity, I yielded to my exhaustion and allowed my grip upon his arms and clothing to weaken, my forehead to fall against his heartbeat. Feeling me finally relax, Holmes used his strength to manoeuvre my suppliant body until we lay next to each other. The glow from the nearby flames danced over and caught on the mixed sheen of sweat and my breath condensed on his chest. He looked angelic and debauched and I didn't know how to feel.

'If there is indeed a God, Watson, he would not deem this to be a sin. Loving someone is not sacrilege.'

'Why do I love you?' I asked everything, despite the fact that we were both aware that I knew the answer.

The crackling logs and embers were pinpricks in the silence. He sat up, pulling me with him, and then he leaned close and showed me _why._ At first his lips were barely there, unsure of their path, a presence careful and soft. When he felt my hand on his arm, encouraging, pleading, he grew bolder and opened his mouth against mine, shivering as our tongues met in a gentle slide.

I could not and did not wish to stop the noises which came low from my throat; he was unlike anything I had ever encountered. There was something elemental about him which had always appealed to every single fibre within me – my every cell responded with desperation to his kiss. I loved the undeniable maleness of him. I loved the way his mass and muscles quivered and tensed against my own as he became lost in a passion he did not understand. It was clear that there was no forethought here; I was being trusted enough to see the rare sight of Sherlock Holmes being governed by something higher than reason. This was honesty and danger and beauty and everything our friendship had ever meant; this is what I lived for.

Only when our lips were swollen and reddened did I sense his hesitation. Soft keens of frustration punctuated his panting. Both our erections were undeniable and I wanted very much to reach across and touch him, but resisted for fear of him becoming overwhelmed. As we broke apart from another fierce kiss he looked down to where both our pairs of trousers had grown tight. He was struggling, teeming with feelings he was unused to and I wished only to reassure him.

'Watson,' he began, pausing to lick at his wet lips, 'I want to – I don't know how to –'

'Anything… please – just anything.'

He leant quickly back into my lips, more forcefully now, and pushed me back until I lay beneath him. He knelt over me and I squeezed my eyes shut, whimpering when I felt fingers stroke my cock. There came such an intense stab of longing to my heart that searching for a name or reason for the feeling became futile, for it had evaded the understanding of the most skilled poets, philosophers and physicians since the beginning of time. Suddenly he was on top of me and gasping with surprise at the delicious feeling of our erections pressed together. We moved as one and the measured grinding of his length against mine made me hiss, my teeth meeting with a click in the absence of some of his flesh to bite down on.

'She wished you well,' he murmured, lips unexpectedly materialising at my ear.

'I – uh, _God_ , Holmes -' I groaned against his neck. 'Is this really the time?' My hands stilled on his back. 'Anyway, you may well say that. I have no way of checking.'

'You know the skills of memory that I possess.'

I tensed as I caught his drift and pushed him from me. 'No, no – don't. Please, don't –'

He lay calmly on his back and spoke as I sat up once again and turned away, for I did not want to hear her reprimands, her disappoinment. ' _In short, my dear, you must not blame yourself for what has occurred between us. Your bond with Sherlock Holmes makes you who you are, and who would I be to stand in the way of that? You are better with him, and he in turn is better with you. You have been a fool, darling, but now there comes a chance for you to make things right. I do love you, and I know that you tried your best to love me, but love_ him _, John. I wish you both well, and I shall ever remain your fond friend, Mary.'_

My head was in in my hands and tears fell fast against my palms as he recited her written words, imitating precisely her inflections and rhythms of speech. A broken sob escaped my lips and I shuddered under the weight of sudden and unexpected clarity. I sensed Holmes' presence close behind me and a few moments passed before I felt a hand on my shoulder. Leaning into the touch, I let go of the breath I didn't know I'd been holding and all but fell back into his waiting embrace. He held me awhile.

I say this now to those who have believed and still believe that Sherlock Holmes is without a heart and cannot feel – this man feels more keenly and has a bigger heart than any of us. He held me in his arms and in doing so he stopped my heart breaking with the guilt of having broken his. He dried the tears and clasped the hands of the man who, in his cowardice and blindness, had hurt him. This was belief and faith and love beyond boundaries, beyond explanation. And, I knew, certainly beyond what I deserved.

By the time my pulse had slowed to match his, the fire had quite died down and the embers were a gentle red. I needed to speak; my voice was hoarse and my words came slowly, deliberately.

'There - there are no words, Holmes, to explain how much regret I feel for how I have treated you. I was afraid and I did not know how to deal with what I was feeling, what I wanted. I just –' I faltered, trying to find the strength he knew I had, 'I just want – you know I've always wanted –' I covered my face with my arm but he took my hands in his and spoke against my neck, catching tears against his lips.

'What is it that you want, John? Look at me.'

My first name in his voice made me shudder. I turned so that his face was close to mine and as I looked into his eyes, I recognised the openness and trust he had once awarded to me. In front of me was a rare man and the fact that I had overlooked him for so long made my heart ache as though it would burst. It was penance.

'This.' I gestured between us and reached out to him. My hand touched his face, traced a trail from cheekbone to jaw and settled at his neck. 'This, here. Just this. I want _you_ , Sherlock.'

He kissed me, moving my hand down with his own until it lay over his heart. I mouthed the words 'I'm sorry' against his mouth, his cheek, temple, forehead, into his hair, his neck. Those words were a litany that would not cease for many years.

Desperate to touch more, to say more, to hear more, to feel his body quiver against mine, I reached to pull his shirt from his shoulders. When he took my hands in his own to stay their progress, I panicked briefly, fearing that I had finally inspired his rejection. I caught his drift, though, as he inclined his head. Allowing him to help me to my feet and taking his outstretched hand, I followed him to his bedroom.


	6. Chapter 6

The march to his bedroom was surefooted. Our steps were heavy with the certainty of our purpose and our desires; the path felt like one that we had been destined to tread since our first meeting at St. Bart's. I paused in the centre of the room when his hand let go of mine. The air pulsed with the silence of expectation.

After lighting the oil lamp and taming the flame leaping up from the wick, he drew one curtain until gentle shadows lapped at walls tinged with amber and the moon. Like a child I stood watching him, wriggling the toes of my newly-bare feet into the carpet. I felt timid, shocked by the strength of my need for him, intimidated by the gravity of the situation and by the years of denial which had preceded it. I imagined that my gaze mirrored his, dark and heady in its intensity and yet softened by a shyness that only the other could perceive; a gift, wrapped in years of intimacy.

We continued to regard each other as he sat on the bed to remove his own footwear. When I made motions to begin loosening my tie, he said, 'Would you allow me do that for you?'

I nodded quickly and walked to take the hand with which he beckoned me to sit next to him, where my nerves tingled as he unfastened slowly two buttons of my shirt and parted its fabric so that he could count the steady, heightened thrumming of the pulse at my neck. He stared at this spot for some moments, deducing that the smile on my face was not only a response to his proximity. I was remembering what it felt like to be alive. In that pulse he saw the battlefield. He saw life and death. In that pulse he saw himself.

'You are the third.'

He said nothing in return but instead looked into my eyes, inviting my words. I took his hand and placed it under my shirt, over the naked skin of my chest.

'Can you feel how very alive you make me? Don't say you can't be different degrees of "alive", Sherlock, because you can. Being a soldier makes me alive and being a doctor makes me alive. My heart beats faster because I have a purpose and it's dangerous. You're the third thing to have ever made my heart beat.' We laughed as it thumped with even greater intensity under his palm when he stroked my skin, as if it wished to make its agreement clear. 'That said,' I chuckled, leaning closer to him, 'nothing, absolutely nothing, has ever made me feel like this.'

Inching forwards until he almost closed the gap between our lips, he hummed his agreement and my heart trembled until I was lightheaded with want. 'Your responsiveness has surpassed even my wildest hopes.'

My physician's brain began to muse distractedly about the possibility of coronary issues as a result of the absolute clamour in my chest when our lips met. All coherent thought was soon made impossible, however, when his tongue became familiar with my lower lip. Whimpering, I all but tore open my shirt, wanting more than just one of his hands, wanting everything he had.

I let him lead, wanting the comfortable security of surrender as well as to make a gesture of trust. As he undressed me at length he spoke of this and of that, punctuating his monologue with kisses to each part of my body he revealed. His fingers traced the ghosts of my bruises and he kissed those, too, before he lay me down on my back where I lifted my hips to help him ease off my underwear. Much of the time he had been speaking but he fell silent now that I was finally bare before him, there for him to touch and kiss and look at. I didn't blush under his gaze.

Once he was able to tear his eyes away from my proud erection, he rose and allowed me to watch him undress. He began talking again about nothing in particular, smiling minutely at the sounds I made when he removed each item of clothing, culminating in my first view of the succulent globes of his backside. I was desperate to touch every inch of him, but exercised patience. We had all the time in the world.

He joined me on the bed again and there were a few seconds where all introspection stopped. Everything stopped before everything was to start. I waited, as passive as a lamb, for him to reach out to me, to finally claim what we had wanted for so long. Then time became fluid.

Some seconds felt like days where I could watch at leisure a single droplet of sweat trail its languid path from neck to breastbone, where I would wait for it to reach my waiting tongue. Others were simply a hot, heavy blur of hands and skin and heat and weight and pleasure which made me feel like I was hurtling through echoes of my name in his voice and in his voice my name.

His first name was in my mouth exotically, repeatedly. I curved my lips around its two solid syllables and never wanted to stop tasting them. Saying it felt like a kiss.

'Sherlock,' I smiled, the sibilance like the sea against his cheek.

'Sherlock,' I gasped as I cradled and coaxed our erections within my fist.

' _Sherlock_ ', came my half-shout when the pleasure began to build so much that I knew I would not be able to form any more words. If I died now, in this minute, I wanted that to be the last word I ever said. He lay on his back and I almost on top of him, save for where my hand clasped us both. It was a slick, obscene sensation and the only thing more captivating than watching our cocks slide in my fist through my saliva and our commingled pre-ejaculatory fluids was observing him.

Ecstasy made radiant his eyes and wild his breath and wild and radiant and tremulous his naked limbs. My free hand grasped the meeting between his neck and collarbone where pale skin was flushed and sweet with sweat while my eyes roved down his body. His hair was plastered to his forehead and his pupils were dilated as though I were to him the most potent of drugs. I kissed his keening mouth before I indulged myself in watching his hips thrust upwards so that his member pressed against my own and into the ring of my fingers again and again and again –

I could watch no more, squeezing my eyes shut against his temple and listening instead to the sound of him. It sounded like the past, like years, like one of his tragic violin arias which would always cause me to weep silently behind my newspaper mixed with the feral sounds I would make in secret whilst touching myself and wishing it was him.

It raised the hairs along my arms and sent exquisite sparks of pleasure through me until I could take no more, no more, until I was half-dead with need.

'Oh, John, my John, you must look!'

This was the last thing I was able to process, save for the sight which met the opening of my eyes, before everything ceased to exist. Thick white spurts of semen erupted from our cocks and over my hand in pulses, pooling on his belly. I swore and gasped, losing my breath entirely and feeling every muscle become rigid with pleasure. Long spine arching, he pulled me on top of him and we rode the last waves of pleasure by sliding against each other in the hot pool of liquid we'd produced. To kiss him and to clasp him to me was languid and infinite happiness.

'Sherlock,' I whispered, before I told him I loved him.


End file.
